The Illusion of Inspiration
Erin Darby
Gesell
©
Copyright 2018 by Erin Darby Gesell
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I am a
runner. In the physical sense—I train for and compete in ultra
distance races on the regular, and I wish it were socially acceptable
to run everywhere I go rather than walk—and in a less literal
sense in that I need to skip town as frequently as possible.
In an
emotionally complex chain of events that I am only just now beginning
to realize, contradictory to everything I am, I bought a house five
years ago. I think that this decision was an attempt to anchor
myself. I did it in my way—white girl from small town Nebraska
buys a beautiful old house in North Omaha, a predominately black
neighborhood, alone. In committing myself to that house, to Omaha, to
Nebraska, places I was so desperately escaping each weekend, I lived
in total rebellion with myself.
I would
never consider myself a rebel. I’ve always, always been a good
kid/employee/friend/partner/whatever. After I bought this house, I
was promoted to management at my job. I loved my job. In
contradiction to running away from things, I am stupid loyal. So when
my boss said we need you to manage things, my loyalty said OK, I can
do this, committing myself to another thing.
But in the
back of my head is this voice saying, f- it all! Screw capitalism and
social norms! Go live in a van in the forest! On bad days I think,
yeah, I’m gone! But a voice deeper inside of me knows that this
would be fun for maybe a month. Then I’d probably feel like a
total piece of crap because the world is a crappy place and I have
things to say and an able body to dedicate to some cause somewhere.
I spent a
month getting my house ready to sell. The second to last week in
September, I listed my house and book a trip to Oregon the first week
in October. “I’m going to Oregon to volunteer with the
National Parks Service I tell my friends, family, and clients.”
You’re such an inspiration, I want your life, they tell me. I
shrug. If I were really that cool, I’d figure out a way to make
travel and volunteering my life.
There were
pretty horrible forest fires last fall in Oregon. I assumed this
would mean people would be jumping for joy to have volunteers. It
actually meant that everyone is so busy that, unless you are a
volunteer firefighter, they don’t have time to deal with you. I
call and email and email and call and finally, the day before I
leave, Debra asks me if I’d like to collect thermographs with
her in Umpqua National Forest. I have no idea what a thermograph is
but f--k yeah, I’d like to do that! Debra is instantly my best
friend.
I fly into
Portland and get my rental car. Contrary to great urging by the
rental car guy, I refuse to pay for extra insurance. I want to tell
him, dude, I’m so cheap I plan on sleeping in this Toyota
Highlander while I live in the forest the next few days, but decide
against it.
My first
day in Oregon was spent with one of my closest childhood friends on
her weed farm so that I can hang with her and her new baby. Her
husband is deep in the throws of marijuana harvest. Again, I wish I
could tell you I rebelled hard and smuggled a bunch of pot back, and
got caught and my life were way more exciting, but it’s not,
I’m not. Walking into their drying shed with workers trimming
buds of 48 plants (each plant produces about 5 pounds of weed) and
plants hanging from the ceiling was thrilling enough for me.
My friend
reads tarot cards and her online business is booming. Her baby is
beautiful and healthy. Her husband excitedly tells me about his
business and my heart is so full of their happiness. We talk about
the upcoming full moon—both the baby and I have a hard time
sleeping with the full moon—and politics and these horrible new
trends of women eating their placentas after birth and flat earthers.
I tell them I’m selling my house, that I’m going to go
down to part time at my job, that I don’t know what I’m
going to do next. They tell me I’m an inspiration.
My house
sold the day after I listed. I knew that when I got home, I’d
have three weeks to find a place to live. And that I’d have
three weeks to get anything the buyers need ready to finalize the
sale. I was twenty-nine years old and planning the sale of everything
I owned but my dog’s bed and my Jeep.
The next
day I volunteered with Debra. She’s magnificent. We were
spending 9 hours together that day so I didn’t want to step on
her toes too much. We spent the first hour feeling each other out,
skirting around politics until I finally tell her I guess part of the
reason I’m volunteering with her is in response to a Trump
presidency.
Then
we’re on a roll. She tells me about her first women’s
march in the seventies and then marching on Washington in the
nineties. We talk about being bleeding heart liberals in, my case a
red state, in her case a red county. She tells me how much easier it
would be to just move the 65 miles north to Eugene. I nod. I’ve
thought this so many times. But instead I tell her to think how much
more her voice means in a community that needs those voices of
change. When I leave that evening, she hugs me and tells me I am an
inspiration and to never give up the fight.
I have a
two-hour drive to the coast, where I’m camping for the evening.
I drive west to Humbug Mountain State Park, and on my way realize, I
haven’t seen the sun set over the ocean since grad school—over
three years—I’d like to get to the coast to watch the
sunset. I speed. I weave through the mountains and my phone is dying
and there are two radio stations that I can get in this area: Jesus
stuff or NPR. I love NPR, but when you are hauling through the
mountains, chasing the sun, NPR isn’t exactly spurring you on
in that race.
It’s
pitch black by the time I make it to the ocean. I can hear it, smell
it, see it in the full moon’s light, but I don’t see the
sunset. I make camp in the back of the Highlander. I’ve nothing
to do so I go to bed at 9 pm after sending my mom the “I’m
Alive” text. Again, not a rebel.
The next
morning I wake before the sun rises. I plan to have a full day of
running—I want to do about twenty miles in two different parks
so I need to get going. Before I’m ready to run, I walk through
the campground toward the sound of the ocean. The sky is the most
beautiful rainbow of pink, orange, and blue. Framed between two
mountains is the moon. Instead of looking at the water then making my
way back to camp to change and run, I sit down. I listen to the waves
and watch the moonset and remember what my friend told me about the
feminine moon eclipsing the male sun in a year that has seemed like
women will fall three steps back. I have the beach all to myself and
I think that it just might be an inspiring thing to love yourself
enough that you’d fly halfway across the country to sit on a
beach alone.
Erin
Darby Gesell is a writer, Louder Than a Bomb coach, ultra marathon
runner, yogi, and lover of chocolate, dogs, and all
things fictional.
She obtained her BFA from the University of Nebraska at Omaha in
Creative Writing and Spanish and her MFA from Antioch University in
Los Angeles. She lives in a van, working remotely, and giving
her dog the adventure life he deserves. Her short
stories
have been published in various journals including: The Riding Light
Review, A Sharp Piece of Awesome, the anthology For Books' Sake, an
anthology by Zimbell House Publishing, and her flash fiction has
been anthologized for best flash 2017.
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